Pot Black
by smudgen2008
Summary: A guy devoted to his sport and a girl to her studies. What happens when they discover an attraction that won't go away? Rated M for language and adult situations. Snookerward. Using the daily WitFit prompts.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters are owned by their respective owners. Any Original characters and plot are mine.

_Prompt:__Tank_

_A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates._

**Prologue**

The sold out theatre is silent. I watch as he bends to break off for the final frame decider of this World Snooker Championship, a look of pure concentration on his face. I look on with the rest of the audience in rapt fascination with the game before me. Everyone knows how important this is to him. The past few years have seen him rise to heights uncharted by any other snooker player and seen him careen back to Earth, tank on the most public stage of his sport. I haven't seen him in person for years, yet his untameable copper locks, piercing green eyes and defined jaw with a days worth of scruff show him to be the same man I once knew.

He's known as the best in the sport at hiding his emotions, never buckling to pressure or showing the strain, yet as I sit here I can see him fiddling with his bow tie, his tell, showing those who know him best just how much this means. They play a series of excruciating safety shots, waiting for each other to make a mistake and provide an opportunity, but my eyes never leave his form in his lucky blue waistcoat, determined not to fail. Finally he's presented with a chance and he approaches the table, potting a long red with ease, positioning himself nicely on the black. The audience can only look on as he makes his way around the table, without a care in the world, blocking out the distractions of the cheers as he pots frame ball and continues towards a century break. Still he doesn't acknowledge the crowd, continuing to a cool 147 maximum, leaving him with two prize funds to collect.

By the time he has finished I and the entire crowd are on their feet, whooping and howling at the most surprising victory in the history of the game. The referee and his opponent, James Turner, approach and shake his hand in congratulations and still he fails to acknowledge the crowd or show any sign of celebration. He simply dismantles his cue, putting it away before removing his bow tie and opening the top button of his black shirt so he can breathe again. I know he hates those things, but the rules are there for a reason, and he always told me the integrity that comes with the sport of Snooker is what kept him interested. Unlike other victors no family rush in to greet him, just his ageing coach offering a firm pat on the back.

"'Bout time he lived up to his potential" the Canadian voice beside me declares over the applause, and I am drawn back to why I'm there; to do my job. No, I am not there for him. That's not my right anymore. It hadn't been for a very long time.

"So this is your second World Title and you've had quite the journey in between times. Anyone you'd like to thank for getting back to this point?" The crowd quieten as the BBC sports presenter Hazel begins the obligatory post match interview with the victor.

"I just want to congratulate James on such a tight match, it was really a challenge to beat him. And I'll just thank anyone who's helped me get here, they know who they are." His response is short, I know he hates talking to the press and is just trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. He offers his trademark crooked grin in compensation for not offering more verbally and the crowd react with cheers as he knew they would, affectively ending the interview. I can't help the chuckle and shake of the head that escapes at this.

"Yeah, the lad has always been good at getting the press off his back. He can be a clever guy _sometimes._" My companion offers me a sardonic grin as I nod in polite agreement, once again trying to get my brain back into working mode. It's him I'm supposed to be observing, not the champion. Yet still my attention is drawn back to centre of the theatre where the prizes and trophies are being handed out. Aro Volturi, head of the World Snooker Association has a tight smile plastered on his face as he hands over the trophy. The feud between the two well known amongst followers of the game, making his win all the more satisfying. I can't help but be proud of his win, no matter our history, and wonder briefly if I'll be able to congratulate him myself, but shake the idea as I remember my place. He won't want to see me anyway. I wouldn't want to even know I was here if I were him.

The press take pictures as he poses with the trophy, before he holds it up to the crowd, finally seeming to celebrate his victory. Then as if in slow motion, yet too quickly for me to turn away I find myself staring in to the depths of those bottomless green orbs. I gasp, unsure of what to do when he simply cocks an eyebrow at me questioningly before moving to my companion and inclining his head. I glance to the side to find him smiling at me knowingly. Unsure if this was set up by my companion off his own back, by the champion himself or just coincidence of one thing I'm certain; Edward Cullen had found me and it's time I face the consequences.

_A.N This little story should update every few days, using the WitFit prompts, alternating between the past and present. _

_Snooker is a cue sport popular here in the UK. I don't intend to get particularly technical with the knowledge, if anyone has specific questions feel free to ask. Snooker players are required to wear a waistcoat and bow tie when playing. A break is the number of points scored by a player without missing, matches are scored in frames. Each frame is a clearance of the table and the number of frames played in each match increases as the tournament goes on. The World Championship happens annually in The Crucible theatre in Sheffield, England. _


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters are owned by their respective owners. Any Original characters and plot are mine.

_Word Prompt: Hurt_

_Dialogue Flex: "I made an interesting discovery."_

_Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else._

**May 2007. **

I walk quickly through the fresh air of the spring night, body vibrating with adrenaline and deeply in need of a stiff drink if I even have the slightest chance of sleeping. I am happy to be out of the stiff, formal clothing required of me during play, embracing instead some warn, faded denim jeans and simple black t-shirt providing me with comfort. I sigh in contentment as I arrive at The Old Monk, the pub I've frequented for the World's every year for the past seven, the difference this year being that I am there as a competitor. I open the door to enter and am hit by a wall of sound, boisterous laughter from slightly drunken men, with a warm glow emanating from the orange lights providing a familiar welcome. I approach the bar and nod to Emmet, the landlord. He acknowledges me with a wink and I know I'll be able to get the quiet drink I'm looking for. I'm grinning as he makes his way over to me.

"I must admit Ed, I'm a bit disappointed you didn't give me any warning. When you win, I expect a thanks in your speech, mate!"

I chuckle at the man who acts as my friend and confident, always willing to discuss hopes and predictions surrounding the tournament. "Emmet, good to see you again. I'm not going to win, it's my debut. A debutant hasn't won for decades. And how many times do I have to tell you to not call me Ed?"

"I have rights over that name, besides you need to stay incognito now that you're in the championship. Regardless of how far you get, you're going to knock out Higgins. Higgins, Ed. Last year's champion! Your great play is going to turn heads, if your good looks and age hadn't already." He replied, nodding over to a girl who's surreptitiously staring at me across the bar. I am momentarily struck by her beauty. Her deep brown eyes capture my attention, her hair in a messy bun with strands falling into her face, a notepad and empty glass in front of her.

"Hey Em, I'll have my usual and whatever the lady's having."

"Alright, but remember you have a match to win tomorrow, you can't afford any hanky panky!"

I wave him off, unworried. I am just looking for a chance to unwind and if this girl could give me that, was it so wrong? I slide along the bar to wear she's sitting as Em places my whisky and what looks like a lime and soda in front of us.

"Hi, I'm Edward Cullen, it's a pleasure to meet you." I address the girl, holding out my hand in greeting, putting extra emphasis on my rich English accent, pulling out the full Cullen charm. She raises an eyebrow at me before giving my hand a light shake, placing down her pen to give me her full attention.

"Bella Swan. I know people were talking about you, but I don't know why, nor do I care so please do not assume I'm interested in you." The first thing that strikes me is her beautiful American dialect, completely taking me off guard. I then register what she's saying, unsurprised. I know snooker isn't exactly popular in America.

"Well, don't worry I'm just here to unwind really. I made an interesting discovery tonight." I eye her, wondering if she will continue the conversation.

"And what discovery would that be?" Excellent. She's playing along.

"I'm a snooker player and I discovered that as a complete unknown I can beat the World Champion in my sport and now I'm buzzing. You must appreciate how big a deal this is in any sport, even if you know nothing about Snooker."

"I would say congratulations, but I know you haven't beaten him yet. You have another session to go tomorrow." I stare at her dumfounded. She had lied. She clearly knows a little about me, if not exactly who I am. "What's that saying you use? You shouldn't count your chickens before they've hatched?"

"Ah so you so know who I am," I respond, ignoring her insult, focussing instead on the information she revealed in her comment.

Rolling her eyes she sighs, "Yes, I know who you are. I'm following the championship as it's a pretty big deal in the city and I'm here to experience the local culture. However, I am not interested in feeding the ego of an inexperienced player who happens to have had a run of luck."

"It's not just luck. I'm winning because I deserve to be," I frown, disheartened by her negativity

"You're right it's not entirely luck." I smile, vindicated. "It's also because Higgins is playing like shit." I gape at her as she smiles triumphantly, downing her drink and leaves. I stare at her empty chair for a few seconds, trying to register the rebuff and insults she'd just given me.

"Damn, Ed what's happened in the last year? You've lost your game. Still, gives you a chance for an early night, right? So you can finish the fucker tomorrow? I have money riding on this, don't let me down!"

"I'm hurt by your lack of confidence in me, of course I'll finish him." I bit back, but my concentration remained on the brunette beauty who had just astounded me. "Is she a regular here?" I ask, inclining my head toward the empty chair.

"I've seen her a few times, mostly working. I think she likes it here because we show all the sport. Don't get hung up on her Ed, you need to get your head in the game."

I roll my eyes at his reference, "I will. Listen, I'll see you tomorrow, alright? I need to try to get some sleep."

I stand, giving one last scan on the pub, on the off chance she's hiding somewhere. I sigh in resignation, knowing that Bella Swan would stay on my mind. I decide the only way forward is to turn her comments back on her. Indeed, I vow to prove to her my success isn't just a mixture of luck and other people's mistakes. I also vow to show her there is more to me than just ego, as I believe there is more to her than the cold hearted woman I met this evening.


End file.
